


To Carry On

by DarlingLo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7766272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarlingLo/pseuds/DarlingLo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after the war has ended, Draco Malfoy is released from Azkaban. Three years after the war had ended, Harry Potter is still torn, still fighting, and still lost. A series of events in which no good deed goes unpunished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The gentle hiss of decaying fabric, the tiniest moan of something that used to be human. The whisper of death.

These sounds, even through the fog.

Draco Malfoy wasnt sure when he had lost his eyesight and sunk into the fog. He didn't remember how long he had been in the fog. He just knew the fog, and knew that the fog wasn't inturupted by anything. Light. Sound. Dreams. Even the cries and screams of the pour souls lost in the fog on either side of him inturrpted it anymore. They used to. But not anymore. The fog is impenetrable.

And Draco was helpless against it.

He used to cry, scream, moan, writhe. Anything to get the fog away, to escape the fog. To live again. But day after day, month after month, hour after hour, and the realization that he didn't exist anymore and never would again for the rest of his life sunk into Draco and he learned to accept his fate with open arms. Willingly sinking back into the fog and almost welcoming its hateful tendrils of despair, craving the numbness like a lovers touch.

He didn't need to eat. He didn't need to see. Just breathe. Allow the fog into him as well as blanket him, and he could stay here for the rest of his life hugging the stone wall that was the only thing in existence that hadn't screamed or hurt him. He could float.

All he did was float now.

He wasnt altogether sure of his name anymore, convinced that he merely part of the fog. Which was why he didnt answer when the snarl of his name was thrown at him through the bars of his cell.

He didnt notice the continued scream of his name untill something had cut solidly through the fog and had snatched him up by his hair. He had cried out, an ugly garbled sound. He didn't remember the last time he had used his voice.

"Get up Death Eater." The voice snarled, yanking him up to his shaking feet. He didn't remember the last time he had stood up. He crawled nowadays. He struggled to remember how when the hand in his hair gave another violent yank and he whimpered as he was finally pushed to his feet.

"Lazy fuck." The voice growled as the forgotten hiss of magic swirled around Draco and he could feel something rough around his wrists, binding them together and pulling him forward. He doesnt remember that he should be moving his feet and suddenly the ground is rushing up to meet him, and the shock of pain that flared up from where his face connected with the floor forced another cry from him.

He's rewarded with another snarl and he's dragged up roughly from his position on the floor by the tattered remains of fabric at his neck. He remembers himself this time and manages not to fall over again as for the first time he can remember, he is led out of the fog and into the hallway he can sometimes see through the barred door. He

stumbles behind the voice as he was dragged down the hallway by his bound wrists. It's still dark and he cant open his eyes. He hears the whimpers and moans of those dying around him. A hiss that sounds like words. He's so tired.

He's drifting off in his head when his face slams agianst moist stone again and another series of curses rain down on him. His jaw throbs and and his hair is given another violent yank as he's dragged up a narrow flight of steps. He's pushed in front of his dragger and he feels the this skin of his bare feet tear against the uneven stone of the floor.

After an eternity Draco is shoved through a door and is assulted by a blinding light, almost painful in its intensity and he raises his hands to shield his eyes which screw up against the lights attack, as soon as he raises his hands they are yanked down again and a blow lands on the back of his head. Draco sobs quietly, suddenly wishing for the fog's whispering touch, so gentle in comparison.

A scuffle distracts him and he notices the pressure on his wrists is gone, they're still tied but he can move them. He raises them to his face.

"Hit him again and i'll do everything in my power to make sure you take his place, understood?" A voice, low, angry.

"Yes sir, my apologies." His dragger, now sounding so pathetic in the face of the angry stranger.

"This is prisoner 429753 D. Malfoy as you requested correct sir?" Another voice, strict and curt. Malfoy. It had been forever since Draco had heard that word.

"Yes, and why is he in this condition. his incarcenment was supposed to be temporary." The low voice again, dripping with agitation. Draco tried to open his eyes and the light sent daggers of pain shooting through his skull and the darkness began to spin.

"Three years is hardly temporary Mr-"

"Its also hardly an excuse for this. Why is he tied up" The low voice cut off the stern one and Draco's knees began to shake.

"He's a dangerous Death Eater sir-"

"He looks dead on his feet, Untie him."

"Sir-"

"Now." A chill runs down Draco's back and he can feel the blood rush back to his wrists as the ropes are removed. He wrapes his arms around himself, hugging himself tightly

"I assume you have the documents for his release ready for me?" the low voice demands.

Release?

"Yes sir, if you'll just-"

Draco's breathing began to speed up and his head grew heavy as his knees finally gave out under him, release? From the fog?

No.

Panic swallowed him and he clawed at his hair in desperation. He couldn't leave the fog. What else was there? He could feel the earth falling out from under him and a scream was building in his throat when he hit something solid, and he realized with a shock that it was a pair of arms.

How long had it been since he had contact with another human being?

Draco struggled agianst the arms that suddenly felt like restraints, the arm that wanted him to leave the fog. He yelps when a strong hand catches his wrist and he can feel the fragile bone groan in protest.

"Easy Draco, you're fine, just relax."

Draco. now that was a word he hadnt heard in what felt like a life time. The

low voice that sends the tiniest shred of familiarity gnawing into Draco's brain continues its soft murmur in Draco's ear until he stops shaking and is raised back to his feet. The arms leave him and Draco pulls his arms back around him, the blood pounding in his ears.

"Better make it Thursday instead." The voice says and Draco panics agian. Thursday? Well what was today? Three years? Three years of what?

"Yes of course Mr. Potter-"

Potter?

Another thrill of sheer terror flies through Draco and its suddenly too much and he hears more shouts before his face connects with the cold floor and the fog comes back to catch him in its embrace.

And he floats once more.


	2. Chapter 2

Thursday.

That's what they were all saying. It's Thursday. It's time.

Draco wasn't ready.

He wasn't returned to the fog after the angry stranger had dragged him out-

Potter? No.

-he wasn't taken back to the dark or his wall or his chains. He was placed in a room that was too bright it hurt his eyes and a floor that was too soft. He heard the scratchy remains of his voice call out in pain as the brightness dug through his skull until the lights were gone, the tingle of magic leaving as quickly as it arrived.

There was no more fog. But the darkness was kind in her own way. Draco couldn't float, so he sank. 

Until it broke again. 

The light returned and with it the pain, and his hands weren't enough to shield himself. His head still hurt from where his hair had pulled him through the fog. The blood was still crusted near his ear. His shoulder was numb from where he had been curled up on him self for the last God knows how long. The food that had been placed beside his head remained. He hadn't bothered with it, too lost in mourning the fog.

The hands that greeted him this time were slightly less rough then the last, choosing to pull him up by his limbs rather than his hair, and he found his feet easier this time, walking for the second time since he could remember.

The walk is fuzzier than last time. Draco doesn't remember the the way out of the room he's been laying in, he steps up for stairs and walks straight for floors, the white noise of whoever has the ropes around his wrists pulling forward blurring out the sharpness of the walls and the pounding in his head.

His head is still pounding as a deeper voice buzzes on the back of his head. Something about release forms. Draco floats. His hair is dry for the first time in ages. His eyes hurt and his feet are sore and his legs are tired. He doesn't have limbs. The world is still dark. It doesn't feel like a blanket anymore but it's still dark. He can pretend he isn't walking. Or nodding. Or listening. He nods. He thinks he sleeps. He floats.

He doesn't know how much later. But it's later and the soft voice who led him away from the dark room stops talking finally and Draco hears the screeching whine of a door that never opens being pried away from its casket. There's a soft kiss of ocean scented air on Draco's skin and it's like the entire earth is tilted off its axis as he freezes, eyes wide open and bare feet frozen on the threshold of the door he's been pushed through. 

Fresh air.

Outside.

It's cloudy, the barest hint of a storm painting the corners of Draco's peripheral vision purple as he stares out, his eyes greedily drinking in the sight before him. He thinks he may have died, finally free of the fog as the sea air kisses his face. He's standing on the island, hard, unforgiving rock beneath his bare feet mere steps from the door he was shoved through. He turns once, just to make sure it was there, but it's melted back into the rocks and disappeared. It's all the same to Draco and he turns back to stare out at the choppy sea, all gray and green and blue. Draco doesn't remember the last time he saw color.

He can feel his body shivering, he knows he should be cold by can't feel it, but he wraps his arms around himself anyways, the bones beneath his fingers vibrating with adrenaline and he exhales, taking a shaky step forward and watching the sea lap at the base of the island. The wind pulls what used to be clothes around Draco's body and he can see his irregularly long hair dancing in front of his eyes. He wants to reach out and touch it, but his fingers are locked around his forearms. 

He doesn't know how long he stands out there, staring at the sea, but all too soon a noise interrupts his quiet conversation with the waves and he turns towards the sound. It's loud and choppy, sounding almost mechanical and it's accompanied by splashing as it broke up the water around it. It's coming from Draco's left, and he turns his head slightly to watch, his feet remaining anchored.

A small boat is swiftly cutting its way through the choppy waters, occupied by a single figure, hooded in a heavy black cloak and facing away from Draco. Fear begins to creep up the back of his throat at the sight of the stranger, almost metallic on his tongue in the slight panic, but he still can't get his feet to move. The sound the boat makes as it hits the rock is barely audible over Draco's pounding heart and he thinks he makes it one step back before the figure stands, turning with its head down and stepping onto the rock.

He thinks he should say something, or do something as he watches the hooded figure walk cautiously and slowly across the jagged rock between them, trying not to step in the water or on its long cloak. The figure finally reaches up and lowers its cloak, nearly stopping Draco's heart as the man turns his sad and sunken eyes and meeets Draco's. 

"Malfoy!" The man calls out to be heard over the waves, the jolt once again shaking Draco as he hears his nearly forgotten name tossed at him across the rock. He knows this wizard, he's almost positive he knows this mans face and he feels like he should answer, but his mind is a blank sea of milky white fog and he just watches him move closer and closer, still locked in his position.

"Bloody hell Malfoy, you look like death warmed over." The man said, sweeping his tired eyes over Draco and he reached into his sleeve, pulling out a wand and pointing it at Draco.

Instantly Draco's limbs unlocked and he folded in on himself, flinching backwards and raising his hands up to protect his throat, his eyes screwing shut and his lungs nearly shutting down as his breath froze in his throat.

"Woah woah woah Malfoy, relax. It's a warming charm I'm not gonna jinx you." The man said quickly and Draco realized he wasn't cold anymore, the warm and gentle embrace of magic working it's way under Draco's skin as the feeling came back to his feet. He opened his eyes and relaxed slightly, looking into the apprehensive wizards face. His dirty blond hair was windswept to one side with the ocean air and the heavy pudge of the mans face suddenly hit Draco and he spoke his first word in years.

"Longbottom."

His voice is nonexistent, a child's cry in a loud room. But the man hears nonetheless.

"Yeah!" Neville Longbottom pulled his mouth in an honest to god smile and looked almost, relieved? Draco couldn't tell. His mind is reeling and he's having such a hard time comprehending how the ever living fuck he's been spat out of the fog onto a rock with Neville sodding Longbottom of all people.

"What-why?" Draco's tongue felt too thick in his mouth and he had yet to make sense of the color in front of him than Neville Longbottom materializing in front of him. 

Longbottom, for his part, seemed a little less than patient with Draco and only gave him a beat to be confused before turning on his heel and a long back towards the boat he came off, turning back once to see Draco standing stock still where he left him. "Well c'mon then man." He called over the steadily growing noise of the water as the high tide washed in. "I'm sure you're sick enough of this place." 

Draco watched the man step across the rock before realizing he was meant to follow. His warming charm was still warming his limbs enough for them to unlock and he took a cautious step forward, his bare toes clinging to purchase on the wet ground. 

When he finally makes it to the boat, his feet are so warm he can barely feel them, and he sits in the unsteady wood as the sea tosses around them and wraps Longbottoms' cloak around himself like a shield and watches as he effortlessly sends the boat on his way, the warming charm still strong and the magic heavy as they set out across the sea. Draco turns and watches the prison on the rock disappear, too lost on the sight to marvel at how adept at magic the once clumsy boy-man sharing the boat seems to be.

When the rock is swallowed by the fog, Draco finally turns to stare as Longbottom fiddles with his wand, stealthily pointed in Draco's direction. Draco decides he's too tired to flinch and waits until his watery blue eyes meet his own before he tests his throat again.

"Where are we going?" Sandpaper against glass as he swallows.

Longbottom watches his for a long time, his expression unreadable before he speaks, the underlying strength and confidence Draco had never seen in his youth shaking him as his own soft voice fades into the sea.

"We're going somewhere safe. Someone loves you up there Malfoy, but you're done here." Longbottoms eyes take on a haunted gleam as the wand points directly at Draco's throat and his voice grows icy. "I haven't completely forgiven you. But I understand." The wand lowers and Draco inhales pure salt. "But you're done. It's time there isn't anymore suffering. I'm sorry you've been for so long."

The insane urge to cry slaps Draco in the face like the wind whistling past their boat and he has to avoid Longbottoms eyes, focusing on his own skeletal hands as they curl around the thick fabric of the coat. "Thank you." Draco can't look at him anymore.

Longbottom seems to understand and they ride the rest of the choppy sea out in silence. Longbottom occasionally recasts the warming charm and Draco nervously tugs at his overly long hair. He reaches a tentative hand back and feels that half of it is gone, a bumpy wasteland and he wonders where it went as his other hand fingers the long white strands in front of his eyes.

After an eternity a distant shore crawls into view and anxiety swallows Draco like the fog that circles Longbottoms head as they approach the rocky beach. He watches as they putter to the shore, the boat bumping roughly against the rocks and nearly upsetting Draco from where he say. Longbottom stood easily, his footing sure as he stepped off the boat and watching with the same flat expression as Draco clumsily staggered off the boat, the warming charm finally waning.

The rocks are too sharp against Draco's feet, and he shifts restlessly between them as he watches Longbottom carelessly wave his wand over the boat and it sank beneath the choppy waters, disappearing as Draco watched.

The wind was picking up, whipping Draco's hair around his face and threatening to tear the cloak he clutched between his thin fingers from his grasp when Longbottom turned and held out his arm to Draco, looking expectant.

Draco stared at the proffered limb, perplexed about what he wanted. Nerves began to prickle in Draco's eyes as Longbottom continued to stare blankly at him. 

Eventually he caved, giving an eye roll and a long suffering sigh as he reached out and grasped Draco's arm, pulling him close and wrapping the arm around Draco's midsection roughly. The motion startled Draco, he released a startled yelp and flinched violently as his instincts screamed at the touching to stop and his arms came up around him as his throat began to close.

If Longbottom noticed his reaction, he didn't mention it. He only tightened his grip on Draco's skeletal form and muttered a low "hang on Malfoy." Before twisting them and apparating them off the shore with a deafening crack.

His feet hit pavement hard enough to force him to his knees, the motion sickness and the swell of magic around Draco causing him to retch violently where he landed, his empty stomach heaving painfully as his head swam in the sudden onslaught of movement.

"Shit, sorry Malfoy, I didn't think it would fuck with you like that." Longbottoms hand fluttered awkwardly on his shoulder as the last of the spasms that wracked his body subsided, and he took the hand offered and stood shakily, his eyes squinting in the light he realized he stood under. Raising a shaking hand to shield his eyes he looked up and realized he was standing under a rather bright street lamp, the only light illuminating the strip of houses they had apparated to. 

Longbottom waited until Draco had gotten his feet beneath him before turning and walking down the residential strip, Draco following him as quickly as he could with the cloak he still wore threatening to twine around his bare feet and trip him. After a short walk, Longbottom stopped and turned away from Draco, pulling out a furry bag from the folds of his cloak and plunging his arm to the shoulder inside before pulling out a scrap of paper and handing it to Draco.

"Read that to yourself a few times." He mumbled, returning the bag to his sleeve.

Draco blinked at his for a second before he realized he was meant to be doing something and looking down at the slip of paper caught in his shaking fingers. 

"A safe place is located at number 12, Grimmauld Place."


	3. Chapter 3

Where Draco sits is soft. And warm. His bones ache with it. 

Longbottom has disappeared, leading Draco into the dark house and leaving him clutching his cloak on a chair that seems too large for any normal sized person. His sure and steady footsteps faded up a staircase past Draco's line of sight. The house is quiet.

The room Draco is curled up in is lit by a gentle fire flickering in a single fireplace in the middle of the back wall. Draco extends his fingers in front of his eyes and watches the light play on the bones and notices for the first time the littering of broken skin and torn scabs along the mountains of his knuckles. He realizes he hasn't seen himself in, he doesn't know. 

He pulls his hand back under the cloak. He doesn't want to look at it anymore.

A thud echoes somewhere in the house above, and Draco flinches so hard his neck cracks and he suddenly feels exhausted. The days events have finally hit him and he exhales shakily, feeling the hated sting of tears as the prickle behind his tired eyes and he bites into the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper. He's past really caring about it at this point. He doesn't know what to feel anymore. He doesn't try to think. There's a heavy knot in his throat he knows will explode in flames and dust if he thinks about it. So he breathes.

And watches the fire.

He hasn't seen fire in years. It's something no one thinks about until it's gone. The last time he saw fire was-

smoke everywhere, the pain in his eyes, Crabbes gargled shriek as he fell, the flames licking up his body as his face twisted and blistered-

No.

The lump in his throat threatened to explode as his breathing sped up to a painful level, too quick to stop the room from beginning to tilt dangerously before him as the rug became a rippling sea of movement and Draco nearly choked on the blood gurgling from the glass slicing through his throat.

He can't. He can't. Not anymore.

He wishes for the fog. The gentle embrace where Crabbes distorted and charred body didn't exist and his mothers voice still whispered. A tear drops onto his arm where he realizes he's clawed long red tracks down them with his ragged nails. 

He's crying.

It's with this realization that he strangely calms down, as though the tactile evidence of emotion is enough to swallow the storm inside Draco's head. 

The glass dissolves. Leaving sand in its place to soak up the blood in Draco's throat.

He doesn't watch the fire anymore.

Draco doesn't know how long it is before he can finally hear Longbottoms voice descending the staircase he had disappeared up. The sound of another set of foot steps raises the hair on Draco's neck as he realizes with an ugly spike of dread that he doesn't know where he is, or who-

Potter

NO

-Longbottom has left him in the care of. He doesn't want to turn around. Instead he sits completely still where he is as he hears the two sets of feet come closer, their voices slowly mingling with the cracks and pops

Roars, billowing smoke and searing heat

Of the fireplace.

"I don't know to be completely honest mate, wasn't really in a talking mood."

"No Neville it's fine, yeah, I don't really blame you. No idea how I'm gonna do this either."

Draco's breathing stopped altogether. He knew that voice anywhere. It was a voice before the fog, it was the voice of everything that terrified Draco for most of his life, it was the voice that fought for him in court and it was the soft voice that whispered in Draco's ear and it was the voice that demanded he leave the fog.

Harry Potter.

But how.

Draco couldn't move. Even if he wanted to stand and turn and see what had become of the wizard who'd saved the world and dragged Draco back into it, he couldn't move. He couldn't turn his head. He couldn't even breathe. Much less stop the tears that fell, unwarranted at the sound of his voice. 

Only when his heartbeat and the sound of rushing blood fade from his ears does Draco realize that they had stopped speaking, and there were foot steps approaching the back of his chair. Draco suddenly feels tired, so very tired, almost as though he could, dare he say it, sleep. He doesn't remember sleeping. Just the beginning and end of the fog.

It's only Longbottom however, coming around the back of his chair and casting another look down at him. Draco forced his neck upwards to meet the watery blue eyes, so much softer now, looking more and more like the boy he once used to mercilessly bully. A wave of guilt crushes Draco. A hand clenches around his windpipe as Longbottom inclines his head. He seems to be searching for something to say, but in the end he decides on merely nodding once, seeming to forget about the cloak and turns towards the fireplace with a brunt "Malfoy."

Draco watches in abject horror as Longbottom tosses a handful of powder into the fireplace and steps into the giant green flames

CRABBE WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO

And then he's gone. Just like that. He seems to take the light with him.

And Draco was alone. With Harry Potter. The boy who demanded that Draco remain alive in the world for one reason or another.

It's silent for a long moment, a long moment that gives Draco's heart rate enough time to begin a noble quest to escape up his throat and out of his mouth as his hands nearly twist his own fingers out of their sockets. It's so quiet that Draco feels like he's imagining it when the foot steps finally begin their endless journey around Draco's giant chair to stand before him. 

Draco shuts his eyes and prays. Prays for the fog, prays for death, prays for the emptiness that he had grown so desperate for. He didn't want to live, he doesn't want to keep existing. He doesn't want to see.

The foot steps stop directly in front of him. For a moment Draco thinks he really has died. The glass has all but torn up his throats and blood bubbles into his mouth as sand invades his nostrils. He's going to suffocate in the dark and it's fine by him, it's all fine-

"Draco."

It's as though the world has stopped spinning. And Draco is stuck rooted to the spot as the earth and everything attached to it flys past his head at a million kilometers per hour. He swallows the glass. And opens his eyes.

Harry Potter is still shorter than Draco when he stood. But Draco never stood. And he seems to tower over him. His hair is still unruly, standing up at all angles and flopping down over the scar that's barely visible through his fringe. His clothes look soft, old jeans and a sweater with a large H emblazoned on the front. His trainers are untied. He looks almost human.

Then Draco sees it.

His eyes aren't the vulnerable green they were when he glared into them growing up. They have aged a hundred years, hardened and empty behind the same round glasses as his mouth sits in a stern and tight line below a nose that's still bears the slightest remnants of being broken beneath Draco's own foot. He's thinner, not nearly as thin as Draco himself, but his cheekbones catch the flickering light and his too tightly clenched fists are connected to wrist bones too slender for a man of his stature.

Draco swallows. The boy he watched die and return has once again saved Draco's life. And he's staring right at him, as though waiting for an answer.

Draco bursts into tears.

If Potter had a reaction to it, he doesn't hear it. All he hears is the inhuman sounds being ripped from his throat as his very soul seems to drag itself out of Draco. He can't inhale fast enough to keep up with the sobs that force their way through his torn and bloody voice box. His mouth is full of blood and saliva and waves of nausea are pulling his face into his hands and he weaves his fingers into the torn remnants of his hair and he pulls and yanks and screams and screams for his mother and for death itself when he feels the strong vice grip latch on to his wrists. Draco immediately jerks back at the content, expecting the blow to his face any second now and he's still crying, still making those fucking sounds that sound like a wild animal.

DRACO! DRACO NO PLEASE YOU CANT DO THAT TO HIM PLEASE DRACO DRACO NO MY BABY YOU CANT PLEASE DRACO DRACO DRACO

"Draco!"

Potters voice hits him like a physical force as his hands fight to restrain Draco's arms as he latched tighter to his hair. His vision is beginning to fade back into the inky blackness and he hears the sand fill his throat as he chokes on his cries, the garbled sound drowned out as the blood and glass bubble behind his tongue. 

"Draco stop! Calm down for fucks sake!"

A strong and almost too rough hand yanks Draco's face up, holding tight through the shriek and the twisting motion he gives to get the hands off his face when what feels like glass is shoved between his teeth, the hand holding his mouth so he doesn't bite through it and add more glass into him and he feels the cool drip of a potion slide past the sand in his throat.

And at once, he grows exhausted. He can't cry anymore, his fingers release the strings of his hair he didn't manage to yank out. He can breathe. 

Slowly he looks up between forced and ragged breaths into Potters blank green eyes. His hands are still too tight on his wrists, but he's too tired to care or fight them off. He begins to tremble, his teeth chattering together. Potter finally releases him, taking the small glass vial off Draco's lap where it fell and slipping it into his pocket.

"That's the strongest Calming Draught I could get my hands on." Potters voice is so different. There's no playful lilt. There's no emotion. It's just as flat and blank as his eyes as he surveys Draco. "Is that better?"

it takes Draco a million years to realize he's talking to him. He makes himself nod.

He surveys Draco for a moment longer before nodding once, standing and holding out a hand. "Come on."

It's too much for Draco as he stares at the proffered hand. He cant process it. He forces a sound out.

"Where." A rasp. A whimper. Barely a sound. 

Potters expression doesn't even flicker as he continues to stare. He doesn't drop his hand either. 

"Do you want to stay in those all night?"

Draco realizes his still wearing the tattered remains of the grey robes they had put him in when he, when he. What was there before the fog. They're barely clothes anymore. Shreds and rags that cling to a shredded and ragged body. Draco doesn't care. But Potter's hand is still waiting. 

So he reaches for it.

Standing was harder than he realized it was going to be. A gentle migraine was swimming to the front of his head and his jaw hurt something fierce. He swayed dangerously on his feet and winced when Potter reached out a hand and steadied his shoulder.

"Easy." He muttered flatly, almost as though reading from a script, and once he deemed Draco as less of a fall risk, he tilted his head upward, towards the stairs. 

Draco follows as close as he can, still clutching Longbottoms cloak around him like a shield as he falls into step behind Potter. Standing behind him, Draco can see he's only got an inch or so on him in height. He lowers his head, his vision swimming again.

They continue in silence up two flights of stairs into the house, past a row of dead house elves hanging on the wall and a portrait that has thick heavy curtains surrounding it. The gentle fall of Potter's trainers and the nearly silent tread of Draco's bare feet echoes around and Draco shivers. It's colder upstairs.

The finally reach a door at the end of the hallway on the second floor, Potter turning his head once to make sure Draco was following him still. He nodded at the flat green eyes when he met them and followed him into the room, where it was suddenly significantly warmer than the drafty hallways.

It's done in simple muted colors, a navy blue bedspread covered one of the largest beds Draco had ever seen, three lanterns floated in random areas of the high ceilings and a black ornate rug shielded Draco's feet from the dark polished wood of the floor. It smells like wood and lemon. Draco wished there wasn't so much in his head. 

Potter doesn't comment on the room, instead continuing past the bed to a small but spacious bathroom connected to it, opening the heavy door and gesturing Draco inside. He shuffles forward, not nearly ready for it when Potter carelessly and wandlessly flooded the room with light. 

A mirror.

Panic coats the back of his tongue as he sees the simple wooden bench in front of it, and it nearly sends him to his knees when Potter jerks his head towards it and stands expectantly next to it. 

No no no no no no

Draco's feet seem to move on their own accord as they carry him to the stool and he lowers his body onto it, the corpse in the mirror startling the breath out if him in one heady kick.

Draco didn't recognize himself. Two sunken faded grey eyes. Translucent skin stretched thin over bony mountains of cheekbones and two chapped and dry lips still crusted through with dark blood where his teeth had torn through the skin. 

His hair, wasn't really hair anymore. His fringe and half of his head was covered with long stringy tendrils of white that brush down to a skeletal collarbone, whilst the other half was a mine field of scabs and torn skin and a delicate white fuzz where it appeared to have been torn out of his head.

Draco raised a trembling hand, his whole body wracked with tremors as he reached up to run a hand over the horror a top his head when Potter gently caught his wrist, shaking his head minutely as he led Draco's hand away.

"I'm going to fix that first." Potter said softly as he pulled out his wand, beginning to heal Draco's head.

Draco was still shaking as he watched Potters expression in the mirror. His gaze was intent and his expression free of emotion. He held his wand in one hand and he fingered the strands of his hair as he magically grew them out, his palm occasionally brushing the parts of his scalp where the hair was still brutally short and magic tingling as he healed the abrasions.

It was completely surreal. Draco's life had become the prison, and in one day he had gone from the darkness of the fog and was warmer than he'd been in years, watching a stone faced Harry Potter fixing his hair. The man hasn't even offered any comment on the situation. As though it was all completely commonplace.

"Why, you, why?"

Draco couldn't properly get the words together in a coherent questions. And Potter didn't deign to give an answer, carrying on like he hadn't heard Draco's aborted question.

Draco waited until all of his hair was grown out and Potter changed his wands position so he could begin to cut it to try again.

"How old am I." He asked quietly.

He watched Potter's expression soften to something that could be called remorse for a second before he sighed and he re-adopted the blank look. "You're twenty one years old Draco." He answered.

Draco stopped breathing for a second, his terrified reflection swimming slightly as the world grew blurry for a second. Twenty one. He was twenty one. When he had last been aware of his age he had been eighteen, listening to his mother's wails as she was dragged out of the courtroom when they announced Draco's sentence. 

DRACO! DRACO NO PLEASE YOU CANT DO THAT TO HIM PLEASE DRACO DRACO NO MY BABY YOU CANT PLEASE DRACO DRACO DRACO

Three years.

"Where are my parents." Draco asked once the room drifted back into focus.

This time the wand stilled on Draco's head as Harry was working on his fringe. An odd gleam shone in the green eyes and an emotionless voice greeted Draco this time.

"They're dead."

Draco stopped breathing. No they weren't. They couldn't be.

"No they're not." Draco heard himself mumble from far away, the edges of the room blurring again. "They're-"

"Draco." Harry's voice, harsher this time inturrupted him. Draco raised his unfocused eyes to meet Harry's in the mirror too see Harry lower his wand and tousle Draco's hair, which now resembled the way he favored when he was sixteen. "They're dead."

Draco lowered his eyes to stare back into his reflections gaunt gray gaze, the resemblance to his sixteen year old self almost unnerving  
and he could feel the same darkness, the same inky black panic that had taken hold of him that time he had cried to the ghost in the bathroom. The room was getting darker. His parents. His mother. Gone. 

He was alone.

The last thing he remembers is Harry's panicked cry as the room slips from Draco's grip and he falls off the stool, smacking his forehead on the mirror and blacking out on the way down.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I’m horrible At keeping a writing schedule.

This wasn't supposed to be this hard. This was supposed to fix everything. 

Why was it so hard.

The crackling and popping of the fireplace held no answers for Harry as he stared into it. He wasn't sure how long exactly he had been sitting there, watching the fire dance and then slowly die as he nursed his way through a bottle of firewhiskey. His head was pleasantly swimming now, no longer aching with stress and the pounding headache from the rush of adrenaline that had come with his night.

It really wasn't supposed to be this hard.

"Sir."

A tiny voice startled Harry out of his staring contest with the fireplace and he let his head drift to the side. "Yes Gidget?

The tiny house elf that had materialized by Harry's chair gave him a watery smile, her violet eyes overly wide as she toyed with the small flour sack she wore.

“Gidget is finished with the laundry of Sir, would Sir need Gidget for else?" 

"No," Harry let his head loll back forward, his eyes hazily meeting the fireplace once again. "Just check on him one more time and you can go to bed. Thank you."

"Yes sir!" A quiet snap signaled Gidget's exit and Harry sighed, waving a hand to relight the fire to begin his ritual all over again.

It had been hard enough to see Draco in prison, looking like a corpse reanimated draped in the tattered remains of his burial cloths; eyes empty and unseeing and voice all but gone.

The sudden wave of anxiety and nerves that had swam up and flooded his throat, followed by the hollow burn of anger and hatred at the guard who had handled Draco so roughly, the nearly painful wave of some emotion Harry couldn't manage to swallow or identify as he had caught him before he fell.

He topped off his glass with a sidelong glance. He was nearly halfway through the bottle.

It had been unnervingly difficult for him to walk down the stairs with Neville. He had worked tirelessly for three years, and the fruit of his labor was suddenly in his living room and it had been as though every nerve in his body was screaming in agony at the prospect of looking him in the face.

He nearly lost it when Draco cried, the screams and wails being torn from the others throat reawakening the screams that occasionally still came to Harry in nightmares coupled with the sight of Dracos tortured expression made Harry bite the inside of his mouth until it bled. 

The bathroom had been no easier. Harry hadn't felt anything like that in as long as he could remember. The tearing, horrible feeling of watching someone completely lose it right in front of him. He couldn't connect the dots in his head, that the   
emaciated shadow who's heart he watched break over the news of his parents was the same person who had stared into his eyes and denied that he was who he was to save his life, that it was the same boy who had glared at him with hatred for so long.

It was the most he'd felt in years.

Harry drained the rest of his glass and refilled it again, watching the bottle reanimate it self to lift off the table and pour into his now empty glass, the ice never melting. The low thrum of anger was still echoing through him as he thought of Draco upstairs, sleeping peacefully under the influence of a way too strong calming drought and pure terror. Envy, almost.

He swallowed, the sound heavy in the room. Harry couldn't honestly remember the last time he had felt anything so strongly as looking into Draco's eyes, listening to his scream. He hadn't felt anything in years. He had been numb for as long as he could think, since leaving Hogwarts.

He didn't want to think about that now.

With a long suffering sigh that made Harry feel old beyond his twenty one years, He forced himself up from his chair, ignoring the tilt of the wooden floors beneath his untied trainers, oblivious to it at this point. 

He really shouldn't be pacing in this state at this hour; despite the regularity of it, Gidget still worried. He really had no reason to do his usual wandering of the empty house anymore. Even when he had been buried in legal documents and letters to different members of the board, he rarely did so in such a state.

He knew where his feet were taking him, even as he stumbled along the cold corridors and up the icy staircase. He could drunkenly wander around this house for years, and never cease to get lost. It had never truly felt like home once Sirius died.

He shook his head heavily and pushed his overgrown fringe out of his eyes. He didn't want to think about that now.

He shoved the dark thought out of his head, ignoring the tugging voice that whispered that he never wanted to think about it now, how he always shoved the harder things to think about to the back of his mind. 

He was quiet as possible as he pushed open the room he had put Malfoy to sleep in. He didn't know why he was back here. That was a lie, he knew exactly why he was back there. And as childish and irrational as the entire movement was he didn’t stop himself from leaning on the door and letting it creak loudly open, knowing the occupant of the room wouldn’t be disturbed.

He was right of course, and the bloody git continued to sleep motionlessly in the flickering light of the lamps floating above his head. 

An unwelcome bubble of grief hits Harry somewhere around the abdomen as he watches Draco sleep. He looks so young, so...innocent. The too sharp cheekbones and shock of white hair dragging up the memories of screams and smoke and Lavender Brown and every emotion that Harry drank away and slamming them into his face with a force that made Harry physically recoil and close the door, trying and failing to shove the raw feeling as far away as he could.

The tremor in his hands was threatening again. He felt so old. 

A ward downstairs echoed with a shrill jingle as it floated up to him, alerting the arrival of someone in his downstairs floo. 

Oh fuck me, Harry thought, his heart sinking and his face flushing bright red as he remembered that he had completely forgotten the owl he had sent as soon as Neville had arrived that evening.

“Harry where are you? I know you didn’t forget.” Hermione’s magically amplified voice managed to sound offended, accusing and questioning all at once as it joined Harry’s consciousness as he slowly as he could made his way back down to the ground floor, making every movement seen as organic as possible.

As he reached the landing however he knew instantly he was well and truly fucked as the longer he stood the more pissed he got, the firewhisky worming it’s way into his bloodstream like insidious little fingers and his vision grew blurrier as he reached the den he had just vacated. 

He turned the corner in time to see Hermione standing at the chair he had been lounging in, the nearly empty bottle of firewhisky in her hand and a mournful look on her face as she shook her head down at the glass, mouth already in a scowl.

Leaning heavily against the doorway, ready to accept his fate he sighed, letting his unfocused eyes drift near the floor. “I didn’t forget ‘Mione, it’s just later than i thought.”

“Oh Harry, again?” Hermione gave no indication that she heard him, instead turning her sharp gaze onto him with a frown. “It’s not even one o clock, are you seriously telling me you couldn’t wait on this?”

A bolt of shame warped the twisted tangle of emotions currently playing hell with Harry’s nerves as he watched Hermione send the bottle zooming back to the kitchen before she rounded on him again. “This has got to stop Harry it’s really not healthy. I keep telling you to go see the Mind Healer and to not lock yourself away in the house-“

“I’m fine Hermione.” It didn’t come out with as much conviction as he would have liked, and he slurred a little too much on her name. He didn’t like when she bugged him about therapy. What would some Mediwizard know about fire and blood and the smell of the inside of a prison. Nothing.

They didn’t know anything.

“No, no you most certainly are not Harry James Potter, and don’t you dare take that tone with me.” Her amber eyes flashed dangerously and she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingers before she looked back up at him. “You’re not, you look dead on your feet and you’re completely sloshed. When was the last time you’ve eaten something?”

Whatever snappy retort Harry had died on his overly thick tongue as he actually stopped to think. He couldn’t think of the last time he had eaten anything. Food hardly had taste anymore. He usually only ate something if he was too hungover to move or he was nearly fainting where he stood.

“I eat.” It sounded lame even to his own ears.

Hermione closed her eyes, inhaling through her nose before raising her eyes to the ceiling, seemingly praying for patience. Finally she dropped the bag she still had slung over her shoulder into the chair and dropped her cloak on top of it, readjusting her jumper. She moved past him, taking his hand in a gentle way that belied her irritability and walking him to the kitchen, as she usually did when she found him like this. 

“Hermione Weasley!” Gidgets ecstatic voice greeted them once Hermione managed to maneuver Harry into the kitchen. The sudden squeak of noise startled Harry with a jolt and he straight up flinched, hand dropping from Hermiones and reaching instinctively for his wand when she caught his wrist again. 

“Hullo Gidget! It’s certainly late for you to be awake, didn’t Harry let you go to bed?” The last part of her sentence was pushed through gritted teeth and was accompanied by a dirty look.

“I sent her to bed.” Harry said defensively, raising his hands up in surrender.

Gidget turned her enormous eyes to him, anxiety heavy in them as she spoke. “Gidget heard the arrival of Hermione Weasley and thought she might be needing things, Gidget did not mean to not listen.” Her eyes began to shine, instantly sending more guilt on top of the mountain sitting on Harry’s chest. Gidget adored Hermione, she never went to bed on time when she came over. 

“We’ll be fine dearest thank you.” Hermione gave Gidget a warm smile as she waved her wand over the cupboards, ingredients floating out and settling on the table. “I’m just going to feed Harry really quick, go to bed Gidget.”

“Yes ma’am!” With a tinkling snap, Gidget disappeared. Harry blinked blankly at the brick wall where she had stood.

“You don’t deserve her you know.” Hermione said thinly, snapping Harry back to the present. “She’s way too good to you. She worries about you.”

“Good to know you’re gossiping with my house elf.” Harry answered flatly, sitting and watching the sandwich magically assemble itself before belly flopping onto the plate Hermione had set in front of him. A large glass of water landed softly beside it.

“It’s a necessary evil I’m afraid. Eat that.” Hermione ran a hand through her hair, letting the waves cover her face as she glared at him until he picked up the sandwich and took a bite, stubbornly maintaining her eye contact.

It was delicious. Damn her.

“So.” Seemingly appeased by him at least eating, Hermione relaxed, dropping into the seat across from him and resting her chin in her hand. “How was it?”

Still feeling rather pissed, Harry wasn’t ready for the wave of nausea inducing emotion that slammed into his chest at her words. For a moment he had completely forgotten how utterly wrung out he was over the last eight hours.

Draco.

“It was.” Harry had to swallow a few times. He could almost taste the soot on his tongue. Hear the crunch of bones and the slicing of skin. “It was a lot. Brought a lot of stuff up. His hair made me think of Lavender Brown.” Harry was babbling and he knew that, instantly regretting saying it at all when Hermione’s eyes widened in sympathy.

“Oh Harry”-

“No no, I’m drunk, don’t pay attention to that.” Harry cut her off with a hand before taking another bite. His face was probably maroon with embarrassment. “Ignore the last part of that. But yeah. It was a lot. He was a nightmare, wouldn’t stop screaming.”

Hermione looked unconvinced, but humored him with a wrinkled nose and a head tilt. “Well I can imagine it was a lot to swallow. Did you end up needing the potion?”

“Gave him the whole thing.” his answer was muffled with bread and ham.

“The whole thing? Harry he’s going to sleep for days with that!” Hermione scolded. “That’s the strongest Calming Draught that’s legal!”

“Somehow i doubt he’ll mind.” The flat apathy that sat on Harry’s shoulders was coming back. God he wanted another drink. The sandwich was gone and a gentle migraine was flirting with the back of Harry’s skull.

Hermione shook her head and sent the empty plate back to the cupboard it came from, cleaning itself midair before it quietly put itself away. “As unprofessional as it makes me sound i think you’re right. I am glad you finally managed it though really, it’s been a rough three years on you, and this was a really good thing you did for someone who needed it.”

That horrifyingly brought the lump of solid ice back into Harry’s throat and he suddenly couldn’t breathe, the prickling of tears suddenly threatening his vision hitting like needles and for a split second he felt as though he might faint as the metallic taste of panic coated his tongue. No no no he couldn’t think about the last three years right now and he couldn’t think about her words. He didn’t do anything good for anyone, he never did, never has, the only thing he’s ever managed to do is get people killed for him and he was only trying to right how wrong he managed to make the world and no no no-

“Harry!”

Harry blinked, Hermione had materialized in front of him and had one hand on his shoulder and the other on the back of his head and she stared at him. “What’s the matter? Where did you go?”

Shame quickly replaced the sudden onslaught of anxiety that had seized Harry and he shook his head, dislodging her hands and reaching for the water with a hand that didn’t tremble at all, thank you very much.

“Nothing, nowhere, I’m fine.” Harry drained the glass in one go and stood, forcing Hermione back a few steps and cutting off her protest. “Let’s go upstairs then yeah?”

She stared at him for long enough to make Harry squirm with discomfort. He knew she worried about him, they all did. But he couldn’t bring himself to say what she needed him to say or behave how they needed him too. He was much too tired for all that. Finally though, Hermione nodded with what almost looked like defeat before leading them out of the kitchen and back up to the second floor.

She’s silent until they reach Draco’s door and she shoots a furtive look over her shoulder. 

“Will you be alright?”

He knows she’s not talking about his less than sober state. He doesn’t know how to answer her. Already the nerves are making his fingers tingle.

He shrugs.

He watches her restrain from rolling her eyes before she opens the door as quietly as she can.

Her gentle gasp is barely audible in the quiet of the room as they step in, the light catching on their shadows. Draco is still fast asleep, curled up tightly on himself facing them, his newly cropped hair falling over his eyes and his breathing uneven.

Hermione stops at the foot of the bed and visibly steels herself, closing her eyes and shaking her head before catching Harry’s eyes. “ I know what you mean.” She murmurs quietly before she steps closer to Draco, waving her wand over him and reading the odd symbols that lightly float out of her wand.

They cast multicolored shadows over Draco’s pointed features. Anger pulses red off a cheekbone carved from marble. Envy illuminated an upturned nose in green. Guilt and regret cast blue shadows underneath sunken eyes. Harry drinks them all in, eager and greedy to no longer feel numb. The floor tilts beneath him.

“Did you not let him shower? He’s still disgusting.” Her voice is slightly tight as she watches silver jets flit down his emancipated form. 

“He passed out on me before I could. He barely managed the haircut.” Harry forces his voice as flat and mechanical as he can, refusing to let it waved. “How is he.”

“Not great; he’s about forty pounds underweight, his heartbeat is alarmingly irregular, his lungs aren’t nearly at their capacity.” Her eyebrows knitted as all the floaty shapes returned to her want and the light show ended. “He’s severely dehydrated; It’s nearly a wonder he’s still alive.”

“People survive years in prison.” Harry hears the words fall off his tongue unbidden as Draco’s chest falls and rises erratically. His insides most certainly didn’t tighten at her words. 

“I think he had given up.” Her words are soft and pensive and her eyes are mournful for the body in front of her before she snaps out of it and turned, tucking her wand back in her sleeve and cocking her head to the side, signaling that they should leave the room.

Harry most certainly did not look back at the bed before leaving.

“I’ll have the necessary potions to get his health up delivered by the morning.” Her tone is all brisk and businesslike as they head down the stairs, the migraine creeping it’s way up to Harry’s temples as he focuses on not missing any steps. “When he wakes make sure he gets a shower and something to eat, Merlin knows when the last time he had a meal is-“

Harry feels himself nodding along to what she says, her voice fading to gentle white noise over the buzzing in his ears. They’ve arrived back in the den and she swings her cloak over her shoulder and picks up her bag. “Harry? You got that?”

No, no he didn’t, but he doesn’t answer that. Something else had flirted into his mind and the familiar weight of guilt rolls over deep in his gut, nausea threatening to cover Hermiones shoes in firewhisky scented vomit.

“What are you going to tell Ron?”

Her face shutters closed instantly and the corners of her mouth tug down into a frown. They’ve talked about this a lot over the last year. She always has the same answer. 

“That’s not my conversation to have with him Harry.” She says it with finality and leaves no room for debate on the subject. Harsh but fair. 

“Here.” She stops before stepping into the fireplace, pulling something out of her pocket to hand to him. “It’s a Hangover Relief Potion, take it in the morning.” Sorrow in her expression. “And please Harry, enough with the alcohol, it’s really not good.”

She pulls him into a hug, not commenting on how he swayed unsteadily as she pulled him to her. He presses a sloppy kiss to the side of her head. “Thanks ‘Mione.” His lips are so heavy, the words are a jumbled mess.

She doesn’t meet his eyes as she pulls away, her tight smile back in place as she steps into the floo, calling out hers and Rons flat before being engulfed by the green flames.

Harry doesn’t remember falling back into the loveseat across from the armchair and passing out.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been in my unpublished archive for years. This chapter was written in 2009. I finally feel ready to share it.


End file.
